Lutece and Lutece Are Dead
by chatoyance
Summary: "Unfortunately, dear Rosalind, one does not get to choose the flowers at one's own wake."


Young Charles Schofield had not been in the funerary practice for very long, but already it was beginning to wear on his nerves. As the undertaker's son, he was expected to assist his father in his duties when the good citizens of Columbia departed this world, but he found himself nervous and jittery in the presence of the dead, making mistakes which his father frowned upon. The elder Walter Schofield would look down at his son, his moustache twitching slightly, before he knelt down to pick up the shattered jar of roses or carnations, muttering something that his son could not quite make out before going about the rest of his duties.

On this particular day, Charles had been left to arrange the flowers in the parlour of the Lutece home; several bouquets of white and yellow roses, at the demand of his father. The young man stood in the doorway of the parlour, staring down at the two caskets that lay side by side near the fireplace, and swallowed. Truthfully, he thought, the pair had actually been more unsettling while they were still breathing. With this thought at the forefront of his mind, he marched into the room, roses in arm, to arrange them on either side of the caskets.

As he fussed with the roses in the vase, he couldn't help but cast a sidelong glance at the face of Rosalind Lutece, lying peacefully amongst red velvet, her face uncharacteristically serene. Oddly, he thought, peeking at the other body to his right, the pair looked better than they should have after what he heard was a particularly violent explosion in the laboratory. He shuddered involuntarily, looking toward the door at the other end of the parlour; the door that led to the laboratory itself.

Charles stepped back to admire his handiwork, leaning forward to adjust one flower before he was satisfied. On the table between the caskets, he propped up a frame with a photograph inside, and placed a book and a pen next to it, for the guests to register their names and offer their condolences to whoever would take them. Satisfied, he turned to leave and find his father, who had left to run errands in the marketplace in Emporia.

Had Young Charles Schofield stopped at that moment and turned on his heel, he would have seen a pair of red-haired physicists standing before the coffins, looking very much alive.

"I can't say I think highly of the colour choice," Rosalind said to nobody in particular, his mouth twisting into a contemplative expression, her finger tapping against her chin as she examined the flowers, "I would have chosen red, myself."

"Unfortunately, dear Rosalind, one does not get to _choose _the flowers at one's own wake," Robert said, stepping into place beside her, and she 'hmm'ed in agreement.

"I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am."

Rosalind sighed airily, taking a step forward to gaze down at the body of what was once Robert Lutece. He was dressed in a white suit she had never seen him in before, with golden buttons and an L embroidered onto the breast pocket. His hands were neatly folded on his chest, his expression serene and lifeless, the freckles on his nose appearing to have faded in death. Although Robert Lutece was standing right beside her, he was also lying in the casket in front of her, and something in her heart twisted violently at the sight, her throat tightening. She reached for him, her fingertips finding his cheek, and oh the flesh was cold and clammy to the touch, but still she stroked his face, her thumb running across his shallow cheekbone. She shed a tear not for her own death, but for his.

A hand came to rest on top of hers, the skin just as cold as the flesh beneath her palm, and lifted it from the face of the man lying in the casket. This Robert brought her hand toward his face instead, kissing her fingertips lightly as he gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes. Rosalind brought her hand to his jaw, feeling the same sharp features, his skin as cold as that of the dead man who lay before them. Perhaps they were indeed dead, or perhaps they were somewhere between the dead and the living. Regardless, she could still feel his flesh beneath her fingers and his breath across her neck, and for this she was grateful.

Her hand dropped back to her side, and the pair said nothing (of course, nothing needed to be said), turning away from one another and back toward the twin caskets.

Robert shook his head as he looked fixedly at the form of the Rosalind inside the casket, "You look beautiful."

"Thank you, but it is _she_ who looks beautiful, not I."

Rosalind could see his smirk out of the corner of her eye as he spoke, "You really must learn how to take a compliment, my dear."

She ignored the remark and brushed past him toward the table between the caskets, adorned with yet another bouquet of yellow roses and a framed photograph, "Have you seen this photograph?"

Robert tore his gaze away from the coffin and was immediately at her side, "Is that us? It's positively ghastly."

"Isn't it just? I suppose Mister Cunningham had this photo taken for the funeral."

"He made an absolute hash of it, I say. It's so..."

"Lifeless?"

"Precisely."

Rosalind then picked up the pen and left her signature in the book on the table, adding in her fine scientific hand the words, _"We shall see you soon, Mister Fink."_

"That's bound to give him a start," Robert chuckled, taking the pen from her hand and adding his name next to hers. "What do you say we have a few words with Mister Cunningham?"

"Hm, that sounds like a splendid idea, dearest."

Rosalind placed her hand in his and they took two steps in tandem before flickering from existence, leaving behind only ink on paper.


End file.
